28.12.2010

Discord

I have, in the past couple of days, cleaned my apartment from top to bottom, written four new songs, gotten ridiculously drunk, wasted time on a number of silly little endeavors and tried, in vain, to sit still for more than ten minutes at a time. I average about three to four hours of sleep per night (which is a rather relative standard; my cycle is very much akin to the nocturnal persuasion and I tend to sleep during daylight hours) and my energy levels are constantly boiling dangerously close to the brim. I've actually entertained the thought of getting a part-time job just to balance myself in the grip of this flux.

I want things to move faster and faster, but coming to terms on the direction is nearly an impossibility. Every minute of every hour seems like a small eternity, even when I'm hard at work. There is so much drive and ambition inside I'm bursting at the seams. I need to funnel my way out of this chaotic state and find something time-consuming and worthwhile in my crosshairs. Taking concentration by the throat and subduing it to my will has been about as easy as cracking cold fusion.

My mood could be a bit better, I must admit. I've recently made a habit of spending a moment or two collecting myself before leaving the comfort of these walls, as my impulsive nature has rarely been as unpredictable. Being removed from the wheel of daily social ins-and-outs may be the prime culprit here, but there are of course other factors. I spend far too much time thinking about people who, I suspect, aren't returning the favor. Well, I suppose I've given too much thought to certain people altogether.

I know I tend to overthink things and I'm capable of blowing the aftermath of any scenario well out of proportion. Believe me, I know. Distance and cold shoulders have a tendency to give my imagination ugly demon wings. Perhaps I am indeed seeing monsters where there be but shadows. Still, I must admit, having delved quite deep into my past adventures during these nightly sessions of introspection, I've recognized a delightfully hopeless and bittersweet pattern which I seem to be following yet again. Everything reminds me of an old lyric I wrote seven or eight years ago.

Hey, I'm a sucker and I know it well / I know it better than anyone...

While I would wager that my wisdom is substantially greater than in those days, ignoring the lessons of yore requires surprisingly little effort, no matter how much time has passed. A sucker indeed. Yet would I want this to change? No. I'm much more comfortable in my own skin these days, not to mention the fact that I truly appreciate my willingness and courage to dive in foolhardily, headfirst and steadfast, even if the bruises ache as much as before. My threshold for pain seems greater.

Nevertheless, it can be aggravating. I didn't ask for much, but it still seems to have been too tall an order. I dislike being the underdog on the battlefield of affection more than nearly any other discomfort I could fathom, yet that seems to be exactly the bag I've stuffed myself into once again. My attempts to introduce warmth invite a counterforce that feels cold and insulting in equal measure. My logic, flawed as it may be, can't comprehend this response. I feel like I'm being toyed with and it makes my blood boil. I'm worth more.

It's not without its ironic undertones, but that serves to provide little beyond feeding my cynical nature. Hearing my voice drowned out by the surrounding noise or letting it sink back down my throat gives way to the question of how much reciprocity I can be left wanting before I shut down completely and give up on trying and caring. It's a cold thought, but one I can't ignore. Feeling like I'm being overlooked has that effect on me. Always does. I am not without pride.

Sometimes my musing brings up the question if I'm simply an inconsolably naive straw man with blind innocence shrouding my view, offering a lit torch to someone and leaving it up to them whether or not I burn. The idea that someone would have even a tenth of such power over me makes me gag. My mind shifts from pushing forward to walking away within seconds. I can, however, find peculiar comfort in knowing I'm alone in this, which does make it easier to find strength and resiliency inside. Having none to trust in or lean upon but myself is a surprisingly solid foundation.

I wrote something about my hopes a little while back. Reading it again now, after the haze has all but dissipated, it felt good to let those emotions wash over me in hindsight. Unfortunately they now carry a somewhat stale aftertaste. They are past their due and the corrosion of certain realities is slowly setting in. This is all part of another lesson I'll most likely let myself look past in the future. That's the dreamer's disease: seeing your desire, in all its technicolor splendor, drying up and rotting away under the streetlight.

I still look back and smile. Well, I think I'm smiling. My heart might've whispered a little white lie in my ear, but even if that's all it was, damn it, it was a good lie. A beautiful one. It's hard to think about those faint flashes in darkness without feeling like the jester slipping on his own banana peel, but there's certainly nothing wrong with being hopeful in the light of a new dawn. When that hope transgresses over the boundaries of naivete, however, is when the alarm should go off with commanding volume. Unfortunately I don't seem to own one of those devices. It stands to reason I wouldn't want one anyway.

Perhaps I've let my imagination fly too far and its wings will eventually be scolded by the heat of the sun. Perhaps I've painted pictures behind my eyelids with very little touch base with reality. Perhaps I am indeed no more than something to be toyed with and then tossed to the side. It's not as if such things haven't happened before. At least I can say with moderate certainty that I don't seem to fit into the grand scheme of another's discord, no matter how much I would've wanted the opposite to be true. It certainly burns a bit, but also clears my view of excess dirt. A sobering dose.

I would, of course, like everything I've just said to be proven wrong. I am only guessing, after all, educated as the guess may be. My optimistic bone is rarely stroked, but that doesn't stop it from craving for that tender touch. Still, I do deserve better. That is simply non-negotiable. I reckon the world owes me at least one sorry fool to fall head over heels for me. If for nothing else then at least for symmetry's sake. Should such events come to pass, I truly hope I'll remember these words and be wise enough to mirror them against my own actions. The hand holding the torch can wreak quite a bit of havoc if left to its own devices.

To bring yet another uninsightful and mystery-clad soirée into my sorry existence to a close, I'd just like to point out one thing. I've been hearing quite a few rumors and assumptions about what and who I'm talking about. These have ranged from the hilarious to the downright absurd. Trust me on this: you may think you have it pegged, but chances are you're dead wrong. If you really care enough to want to know, why not ask me directly, you silly little weasels.